


get you on the springs (make you fall)

by susiecarter



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Awkward Tension, Bad Flirting, Communication Failure, Denial of Feelings, Extra Treat, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-19 02:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22703734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: The point is, they'd better not. It wouldn't work. And when Jaskier tries something, because he's definitely going to, it'll be up to Geralt to make the right decision and save them both the trouble.Better that things should go on as they are. Better than sating Jaskier's whims and having it all fall apart after.This once, perhaps, there's a lesser evil after all. And Geralt will choose it and gladly.(Or: Jaskier starts hitting on Geralt all the time. Geralt ignores it, because that's obviously the only reasonable thing to do. Except, sooner or later, he isn't going to be able to anymore.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 173
Kudos: 1282
Collections: Best Geralt, Chocolate Box - Round 5





	get you on the springs (make you fall)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nary/gifts).



> I loved the idea of Jaskier flirting with Geralt and Geralt pretending to be oblivious, Nary ... but also sexy bathtimes (or at least attempts thereat) ... and then also Jaskier taking care of Geralt ... okay, so I admit it, I couldn't pick. Please enjoy this medley of all of the above instead, and happy Chocolate Box!
> 
> This draws background details (some locations, some monsters, witcher potions, that sort of thing) from the games, but that's all. Title from Enrique Iglesias, because I couldn't help myself.

It wouldn't work. That much is obvious.

Jaskier fucks like he breathes: reflexively, readily, without giving it a second thought. He fucks everybody, anybody, who appeals to him in the least; and is sulky and petulant about it when they're done with him before he was done with them, but perfectly content to carry on without looking back when it's the other way around.

Geralt doesn't fuck like that. Geralt fucks like he fights, perhaps: tactically. When the need has made itself too obvious to ignore, when he must at last acknowledge that he'd better. When it's worth it to him; only very occasionally for its own sake.

So he knows better than to let Jaskier fuck him. It wouldn't work. And it wouldn't end well, either, no matter how it happened, no matter which of them tired of it first—because if it were Jaskier, well. Jaskier already leaves, sometimes, but he always shows up again sooner or later. Except he wouldn't keep doing it, after that. Not to be cruel, nor because he feared to. Just because he wouldn't. He doesn't. He never has before, and Geralt's heard every fucking story he's got to tell about it to prove as much. Twice. 

And if it were Geralt

(—it wouldn't be; but if it were—)

then he'd have to put up with Jaskier fucking whining about it.

The point is, they'd better not. It wouldn't work. And when Jaskier tries something, because he's definitely going to, it'll be up to Geralt to make the right decision and save them both the trouble.

Better that things should go on as they are. Better than sating Jaskier's whims and having it all fall apart after.

This once, perhaps, there's a lesser evil after all. And Geralt will choose it and gladly, and follow Jaskier's example: carry on, content, without looking back.

The first time it happens, Geralt thinks he's dealt with it.

It's evening—a marginally pleasant one, surprisingly. They've already made camp. They aren't far from a town, but it'll do them no good: they were there this morning. Jaskier had gone ahead of Geralt to the town market, untended, and had promptly gotten himself in so much trouble that, once Geralt had successfully retrieved him intact from the town pillory by the simple expedient of wrenching it open barehanded, there had been nothing for it but to haul him up on Roach and ride faster than any of the villagers could match.

But Geralt isn't holding a grudge. Jaskier had issued a very fine apology to Roach, when asked, for being such an awkward lopsided weight; he'd really gotten into the spirit of the thing, and Geralt had been amused despite himself. Jaskier had also actually made some successful purchases, before it all went wrong, so they have fresh bread for once, and meat Geralt didn't have to gut and skin first, and some very good cheese.

The food is good. The fire is warm. Jaskier is telling the story of the marketplace—something about a very friendly fellow who'd seemed quite swayed by Jaskier's charms, but his wife rather less so, and the frightful misunderstanding that had ensued. Already, no doubt, embellished out of any meaningful resemblance with reality, Geralt thinks. But Jaskier's not a bad storyteller.

So Geralt lies there, propped up on an elbow, and listens. He's full, comfortable. Not a bad day after all, he decides.

And then Jaskier falls silent, sooner than Geralt had expected him to.

Geralt glances over at him, and raises an eyebrow.

"Listen, Geralt," Jaskier says, leaning in a little. "Would you like to fuck?"

Geralt permits nothing about his face to change.

The heat of the fire is no longer a pleasure. The food he'd so readily eaten feels heavy in his gut. All the blurred contentment that had been creeping up on him has shied away at once. He feels oddly tired, in a way no physical effort could have wrung from the body of a witcher. He feels resigned.

He knew this was coming, he reminds himself.

"Hardly poetry," he murmurs aloud.

"Well, you see," Jaskier says, without hesitation, "you and I really aren't so different. We each must choose our approach with care—tailoring the manner of attack to the quarry, as it were. You," and he gestures toward Geralt with a flourish, "are a man who appreciates a straightforward solution to a problem! And I, luckily enough, possess the skill to prove myself adaptable under adverse circumstances." He clears his throat. "So—fuck?"

Geralt looks at him.

For a moment, it's impossible not to think about it. It's impossible not to imagine what it might be like.

And then Geralt looks away, into the heart of the fire instead.

"No," he says evenly.

"Oh," Jaskier says. "Well."

He swallows; Geralt can hear his throat contract, even over the popping and crackling of the fire, senses sharpened with sudden and unwarranted intensity.

And then he shakes himself a little, and squares his shoulders. "Well—all right, then. Just thought it was worth asking."

"Generous," Geralt murmurs, very flat, and looks at him again.

Jaskier's reared back a little, and is making an affronted sort of face. " _Yes_ , quite so, as it happens. I'll have you know I take a great deal of pride in every performance I undertake, and I mean that in every sense of the word—"

Geralt raises his eyebrows. "You've just spent an hour telling me every damn thing that went wrong in a row the moment you were invited into someone's bed," he says mildly. "And not for the first time. I know how to heed a warning when I hear one."

Which is true. But also not a talent he has in common with Jaskier: Jaskier looks at him, pink-faced, and laughs.

"All right, fair enough," he says. "I suppose my timing could have been a bit better."

Geralt raises an eyebrow.

"A lot better," Jaskier amends.

"Mm," Geralt agrees.

He doesn't mean anything particular by it, except that Jaskier's timing is in fact terrible. So: there it is. It happened, as Geralt knew it would, and it's been dealt with. Wasn't so bad, he decides, and allows himself the simple luxury of quiet relief.

It isn't until he meets Jaskier's eyes again, sees the speculative spark in them, that he realizes his misstep: he has also, without intending it, implied that there is—that there perhaps _yet remains_ —timing that would be an improvement. Timing that would result in success.

Which, knowing Jaskier, means this is going to be dragged out beyond all bounds of sense, reason, and dignity—

"I shall bear that in mind," Jaskier murmurs, half to himself.

Geralt lets his eyes fall shut.

Fuck.

Jaskier does bear it in mind. Except his strategy appears to be not so much endeavoring to choose the best timing with care, and more a matter of trying every possible sort of timing that makes itself available, in the blindly enthused hope that he will sooner or later land upon the correct one by sheer chance.

Geralt endures torrents of relentless innuendo. Jaskier talks a lot, and always has; but never before has every other word out of his mouth been so rife with blatantly doubled meaning. He makes the most mundane observations gleefully obscene. Not even an ambush by a swarm of foglets is enough to make him stop—once they're dead, he waxes eloquent about Geralt's unmatched "prowess with a _sword_ " at excruciating length.

The songs, too, grow unfit to be sung in company. Jaskier has made it a habit to continue composing the odd verse here and there about Geralt; but it's always been Geralt's deeds, Geralt's honorable conduct, Geralt's strength and generosity and dignity. Now his focus has transitioned relentlessly to certain other assets.

Geralt hadn't realized Jaskier spent so much time— _looking_.

He doesn't reply in kind. He pretends he hasn't noticed it at all. It means nothing, he tells himself. To be angered or frustrated by it would be to treat it like something, which it isn't. It doesn't matter, and Jaskier will tire of it sooner or later, and then everything will go back to the way it was before.

After another day or so, they have to cross a river. Jaskier stumbles, fumbles; Geralt grabs him by the back of the shirt before he can fall, but his bedroll is lost to the current. In the moment, Geralt doesn't think to treat it as anything except an accident.

Until evening, that is, when Jaskier's wide round eyes have fixed on him, pleading, hopeful.

Geralt grits his teeth and sighs. Lays out his own bedroll, such as it is, and makes a gesture of surrender.

He waits until Jaskier is already arranged on it comfortably before he gives Jaskier a flat, steady look and stalks round to the other side of the fire.

"What?" Jaskier says, blinking. "Geralt, what are you—"

Geralt smiles at him thinly, and lies down. The forest floor's a little damp. Not bad. Nothing he can't bear.

Certainly nothing he can't bear much more easily than he could ever bear—

"Oh, come _on_ ," Jaskier cries. "Really?"

"Really," Geralt agrees mildly, levelly, and links his hands beneath his head, and closes his eyes.

The morning after that, they pack up and keep moving. Geralt is prepared for the worst, braced for it; but Jaskier is blessedly quiet for a while.

It's a pleasant day. Decent weather. A village in the distance, visible here and there as they crest a rise, drawing gradually nearer. Moderate size, Geralt thinks. There will probably be an inn. And with any luck, Jaskier will be able to purchase some new bedding, too.

"I'm sorry," Jaskier says.

Geralt blinks, and looks at him.

"Not for trying to get you to fuck me," Jaskier clarifies instantly, shameless. "Because obviously you should. Or _we_ should, anyway, however you like. But—" He pauses, seeming to remember he'd intended to make an apology. "But I didn't mean to make you sleep on the ground, just to get away from me."

Geralt frowns a little. "It was fine," he says.

"It was the _ground_ , Geralt."

"I've done it before," Geralt says.

Jaskier stares at him. "That is—so not the point," he says at last.

He doesn't seem inclined to elaborate on what he believes the point to be instead. At least not right then; he just watches Geralt, and goes quiet again for so long that Geralt finds himself no longer grateful for it.

They reach the village, which does have an inn. It's not evening yet, but close enough that it seems foolish to set out again without some dire need pressing them onward.

And then Jaskier gets Geralt a room.

Geralt doesn't even know he's done it, at first; he doesn't make a fuss about it. He just does it.

Geralt didn't mind sleeping on the ground. It _was_ fine. But he can concede that a large, well-made, sturdy bed is certainly more comfortable.

It's a good night. He sleeps well, easily, and wakes later than usual, warm and satisfied, feeling thoroughly rested.

He's still up earlier than Jaskier, of course. But his good mood is undiminished, by the time Jaskier shows up to join him at the table where he's breaking his fast, and Jaskier sits down across from him and looks at him, and then blinks and looks again.

"You seem—happy," Jaskier says, tentatively.

Geralt shrugs, and tries belatedly to flatten the line of his mouth into something less soft. It doesn't quite work. "I slept well."

Jaskier's eyes narrow a little. Ominous, Geralt thinks, much too late.

"I've gone about this all wrong," Jaskier murmurs, as if to himself. "You're so—I thought you'd like it better if I were—but no, of course not. That _was_ foolish, wasn't it?"

More ominous still. "Jaskier," Geralt says warningly.

But perhaps the warmth of that comfortable bed is lingering in him, more than he should have let it. Because Jaskier only smiles at him, looking terribly, terrifying pleased with himself.

"Don't worry, Geralt," he says, bright. "I understand now. You'll see."

That's the beginning of the end.

Because it only gets worse. Much worse.

It takes a few days for Geralt to notice. He's dedicated himself so thoroughly to ignoring all of it, to acting as though he has absolutely no idea what Jaskier is doing. He doesn't realize right away that the songs have gotten—sweeter. Wistful. The bawdiness decreases gradually to almost nothing, the occasional lasciviously appreciative line here and there but no more; the songs no longer mention Geralt by name, no longer carry on about witchers and their stamina. It's all gone sideways: ashen hair, eyes gold as sunrise; touches dearly longed for, withheld, and hardened hearts that must be softened with the utmost tenderness.

It's excruciating. Geralt can do nothing but bear it, grimly, waiting for it to end.

But that isn't all. Jaskier stops trying to trick him, trap him, and starts—buying him things. He wanders off into markets alone, but Geralt no longer has to ride after him before a jealous spouse can have him whipped in the town square; he seems to be doing nothing but finding somewhere to perform, collecting coin from passersby or offering his services for the day as entertainment. And then he shows up with—gifts.

The worst part is, they're _good_ gifts. Thoughtful, well-chosen. Clothing, in Geralt's size, that doesn't have claw marks in it where a harpy caught him or holes torn from the last time a forktail ran him through. A new, sturdy pair of boots, carefully waterproofed, well-made. A larger set of saddlebags for Roach: not more than she can carry, but roomier, more space for Geralt's potions and supplies.

Geralt endures it.

It isn't difficult, he decides. Why should it be? Hardly unpleasant, to be plied with useful things he doesn't have to pay for. By all rights, he should be enjoying himself. As long as he's already stuck waiting for Jaskier to get over this particular whim, he might as well gain a little something by it in the bargain.

There's no reason to grow tired of it, somewhere deep down. There's no reason to feel it a burden, heavier by the day.

Jaskier's made it perfectly obvious what this is about, no matter how his tactics have changed. He wants to fuck Geralt, that's all. And Geralt knows better than to let him.

There's a bathhouse in Gelibol.

Several, probably; not a surprise, in a town this size. City, really, Geralt supposes, though it has nothing to boast about in comparison to Cintra, Novigrad, Oxenfurt. But this particular bathhouse is immediately adjacent to the inn nearest the city walls.

And of course the first thing Jaskier does, when they arrive, is buy Geralt an entire night in one of the private rooms.

"Really," Geralt says, staring at him.

"Yes! Paid up already," Jaskier adds, "with the last of that sack of coin I got in Kerack—for singing at that party, you remember? Anyway. Shame to waste it, don't you think?"

Geralt gives him a very flat look.

"It's a lovely place," Jaskier says, coaxing. "Come on—don't try to tell me you couldn't use a nice long soak in a boatload of steaming water, Geralt."

Geralt bites down on a sigh.

As much as he'd like to pretend otherwise, it's just as with the clothes, and the boots, and the saddlebags: Jaskier isn't wrong. Geralt would be glad of the opportunity to bathe—not in an icy stream, checking over his shoulder the whole time for drowners or water hags. Somewhere he can afford to set his swords down; somewhere he can relax, even if only for a while.

The bathhouse _is_ lovely. Well-built, a lot of smooth pale stone. And the water certainly is steaming.

Jaskier is even almost restrained about it, really. He only makes one murmured comment about whether Geralt's going to invite him in, mouth slanting wryly.

Expecting to be refused, as he has been every time since he started this nonsense.

"Fine," Geralt hears himself say.

Jaskier stares at him, eyes round. "Wait, really?"

Geralt tilts his head. "You smell," he informs Jaskier evenly.

"What? Oh, I do _not_ —Geralt!"

Geralt ignores the breathless shout, the kicking feet; he lifts Jaskier easily by the waist, takes the stride remaining up to the edge of the bath—tips Jaskier a little, to make it simpler to hoist him over the side, and drops him in, unceremonious.

Jaskier's squawking turns into spluttering, as he flails his way beneath the surface of the water and then comes up again in a surge of froth and splashing.

Geralt smiles, just a little, and starts absently stripping himself down.

It's easy, straightforward. Muscle memory. He's done it a thousand times for reasons having nothing to do with bodily pleasures: poison seeping beneath his armor, burning, that needed to be rinsed away; clothes worn over a rainy day's travel that must have a chance to dry out; wounds he would next have to sit and clean out himself, and never mind that he would much rather lie down and stop moving.

He doesn't think about it until he's done, and turns round, and Jaskier is staring at him, wide-eyed, dripping, red-faced with more than just the heat of the water.

Shit.

It doesn't matter, Geralt reminds himself, and doesn't hesitate to step up to the edge of the bath, climb in and lower himself down, as if Jaskier weren't there at all.

He leans back into the water, sighs a long satisfying sigh through his nose, and then raises an eyebrow.

And Jaskier looks back at him, and—smiles.

Shakes his head after, drops flying, and laughs a little. And like that—

Like that, eyes blue and brilliant, wet hair going every which way, soaking and ridiculous and utterly, unbearably endearing, Geralt can see it. The thing in Jaskier that people want for themselves, want to have, want to touch, for as long as he'll let them; the thing that makes it so tempting, so _necessary_ , to do whatever he wants of them, whenever and wherever he'd like to have it of them, and damn the consequences.

"You surly wretch," Jaskier says cheerfully, and then heaves himself half out of the water, wrestling with wet bands and buttons till he can peel his shirt away and toss it from the bath.

"Mm," Geralt says.

"Honestly," Jaskier adds, making a face and doing something with his hips under the water that doesn't even seem to be deliberately obscene, just—grappling with his belt, Geralt realizes. That's all. "You really are determined to make this as difficult as possible, aren't you?"

"Don't know what you mean," Geralt tells him, very level.

"Bathhouses are _sexy_ , Geralt. Abounding with intense erotic potential. And yet—" Jaskier pauses to jerk one leg awkwardly, once and then again, till it comes free of his soaked and presumably clinging trousers. "And _yet_ , here you sit, utterly impervious to the seething undercurrents—"

"Utterly," Geralt agrees flatly, and looks away.

"Telling me I _smell_ ," Jaskier is muttering under his breath.

It's only the truth, Geralt thinks. It isn't his fault it's a truth whose measure Jaskier hasn't fully taken. Jaskier does have a distinct odor about him, to Geralt's witcher nose; but it isn't anything a bath could hope to wash away. In point of fact, the heat in here is only making the scent of Jaskier's skin and hair, the simple everyday smell of his bare body, bloom into the fullest and most vivid expression of itself, carried on the air nearly as thickly as all this steam.

Geralt closes his eyes, and breathes in, and doesn't let the look on his face change.

"You still don't want to fuck?" Jaskier says.

Geralt sighs.

"No."

"Not even a little," Jaskier prods. "Not so much as the barest inclination."

"Jaskier," Geralt grits out.

"Because the thing is, in that case I can't work out why you haven't punched me in the head yet."

Geralt cracks an eye, and looks at him.

"For carrying on like this," Jaskier clarifies. "On, and on, and on. I'll be honest, Geralt: your virtues are many and various, but if asked, I wouldn't necessarily have chosen to number patience among them."

Geralt shrugs a shoulder. "They're nice saddlebags," he says.

Jaskier is silent for a moment.

Perhaps his feelings are hurt, Geralt thinks. He is, after all, something of a romantic, despite his self-confessed motives in this particular instance. Surely it can't help but pain him to have his efforts so coldly weighed on their practical merits. Surely this deficiency on Geralt's part can't help but put him off, can't help but hasten closer the moment when he'll relent and turn elsewhere for satisfaction—

"You mercenary bastard," Jaskier murmurs, and beneath a deliberately-applied patina of outrage, his voice is warm, amused.

Geralt sighs through his nose. It was worth a try, he thinks resignedly.

He doesn't look at Jaskier again. Just sits up a little in the water, and then tilts his head back, dips his hair in and wets it fully, and then draws it up in his hands, letting all that blissfully hot water stream down over his knuckles.

And then there's a clink, somewhere off to the side of him; a swish of water; a touch, tentative, textured oddly, against the back of Geralt's shoulder.

A new smell, Geralt registers belatedly, at almost the moment Jaskier says quietly, "Chamomile, I think," and yes, that makes sense of it: oil, on the tips of Jaskier's fingers. "You can't tell me you don't carry far too much tension in your shoulders."

Geralt bites the inside of his cheek, and lets his eyes fall shut again.

Not a good idea, to cede even this much ground. He knows it.

"Hands above the waist," Jaskier adds, on half a laugh. "I promise."

"Fine," Geralt hears himself say.

Jaskier makes a small satisfied sound, low in his throat—not deliberate, not loud enough to be, barely there even to Geralt's hearing. He digs in a little with his thumbs, just mapping the slope of Geralt's shoulders for himself, and: right, Geralt thinks. Lute. Strong fingers. No wonder he's good at this.

"I'll figure it out, you know," Jaskier says.

His tone has changed. Steady. Serious.

"I'll figure out what it takes for you to want me."

Geralt snorts, deliberate, disdainful. "I doubt it," he says, flat.

And he means it.

Unlikely, after all, that Jaskier will ever hit upon the true answer—how can he? How can he, when he believes it lies ahead of him, and not behind him?

Geralt holds out until the leshen.

He doesn't think he can be blamed. Not entirely. Considering the condition he's in, it's a wonder he makes it back out of the forest at all. To exercise sound judgment at the same time is a feat too taxing even for a witcher.

Of course, it could have been worse. The contract he's taken exists at all specifically because a leshen has settled near enough to a road that passes the wood that it poses a danger to innocent travelers. He kills it; and when he's done, he doesn't actually have all that far to stumble, trying to keep his hands steady over the worst gush of dark blood, before someone shouts his name.

Jaskier, he thinks.

"Jaskier," he says.

" _Geralt_ ," Jaskier says, as if it's the direst and most furious curse he knows. "That is—that's not good, that's _not good_. That is supposed to be on the _inside_ of you, not the outside—"

"Swallow," Geralt manages. "I need—"

"—is that tree bark?"

"Branches," Geralt says. "Impaled."

"Yes, that second bit I'd worked out for myself, thanks very much," Jaskier bites out, waspish.

But his hands are gentle, steadying Geralt—hastening him a step, another, toward Roach, until Jaskier can press down on the worst hole in Geralt with one of them and rummage in the saddlebags for a potion with the other. He grasps the cork with his teeth, tugs it free and spits it away, and tips the neck of the flask to Geralt's mouth.

"Come on," he murmurs. "Come on—"

It hurts to drink it. Geralt does it anyway; falters, coughs, and Jaskier curses and jerks the flask back before too much can be lost.

It's starting to work. Geralt can feel the sensation, familiar by now, of his insides beginning to knit themselves back together.

That hurts, too.

"Geralt," someone is saying, a little way away. "Geralt, please, drink some more. You've got to—no, _no_ , keep your hand right there, keep your—just drink the rest of the bottle, all right? Because I really do not fancy standing here all day holding your guts in for you—"

Something against his mouth. He's supposed to drink, he understood that much; he parts his lips, and is rewarded with a warm hand smoothing unsteadily along his face, through his hair.

"That's right. That's right, perfect. Come on, just a little more."

Geralt drinks, and drinks, and drinks. It feels like it takes forever.

"—another one? How fast do these things work on you? Geralt. Geralt!"

"Fine," he manages.

"—full of _shit_ —"

But he is. Or he will be, he's pretty sure. It won't even take that long, once the potion's come into its full effect.

And it's better like this. It's so much better than the way it used to be. Geralt would have had to do all this himself, before; he would have been alone. He'd have had to lie here in the mud and the quiet as the dark crept up on him, waiting to see whether one dose of swallow was enough after all—and Roach whuffling, blowing soft grassy breaths into his face, but that wasn't the same as the voice, the hands. That wasn't the same as—Jaskier. And Geralt is so agonizingly grateful there are no words for it.

He manages to pry his heavy eyes open. Jaskier is a blur, a pale unhappy blur with wide eyes, the soft frightened slash of his mouth like a wound in his face.

"—Geralt? Geralt, _please_ —"

"Shh," Geralt murmurs to him, soothing.

One of Jaskier's hands is still pressed to the gaping wound at Geralt's waist. But the other is gripping Geralt by the jaw, the cheek, thumb trembling against the corner of Geralt's mouth.

Muddy. Bloody, too. But everything touching Geralt right now is muddy and bloody, so Geralt can't complain.

Jaskier's taking care of him. And that is such an unbearably wonderful thing, but Jaskier doesn't seem to know it. He looks so unhappy. He shouldn't be, Geralt thinks dimly. Jaskier should never be unhappy.

Geralt fumbles up with one hand to cover Jaskier's, against his face. And for whatever reason, it feels only right, just then, to turn Jaskier's hand within his own: to press his face to the palm of it, his mouth to the heel.

"For fuck's sake," Jaskier says softly. "You have got to be fucking kidding me. _This_? Really? _This_ is what does it? You stubborn fucking piece of shit—"

Geralt has no idea what he's talking about. He sighs against Jaskier's hand, lets his eyes fall shut.

"—another sip. One more, that's all I'm asking. You can do that for me, can't you?"

"Jaskier," Geralt murmurs.

"One more," Jaskier says to him, sweet, coaxing, infinitely patient. "Come on, Geralt, drink."

Geralt tries to. He does. But he's so tired. Surely he can drink whatever it is when he wakes up.

He's in a bed.

He frowns, just a little. It isn't a bad thing, exactly, to be in a bed. But it doesn't match up with the last thing he remembers, which is—mud. Blood. The forest, the road. Roach, stamping nervously. Jaskier—

Geralt draws a slow breath, and wets his lips, and opens his eyes.

The potions worked, he decides. The breath is painless, and so is the motion of his face, his mouth, his eyes. He isn't bleeding anymore. He aches a little, here and there, but that isn't unusual. Phantom pains: his mind remembering the injuries, even though they're gone. It happens like that sometimes. After all, it isn't precisely natural, to heal the way a witcher does.

Only after he's determined these things does he look up.

He'd already perceived the dip at the side of the bed. And it can't possibly be called a surprise that Jaskier is there, looking back at him.

Quiet, grave. Intent.

Jaskier swallows, throat working. And then he reaches out, and slides his fingers into Geralt's hair—skims through it, smooths it down. Almost absently, as though he simply couldn't help it.

"Geralt," he says, very low.

And Geralt can't stand it anymore. It's simply too much to ask. Perhaps he's had it wrong all this time: perhaps the lesser of two evils will be to give Jaskier what he's asking for, to have it over and done with, rather than—rather than be made to refuse what he has wanted all along, over and over and over, relentless and torturous, a test of will some part of him would forever regret holding fast against.

"Fine," Geralt says.

Jaskier blinks, and raises an eyebrow. "Fine? Fine what? You're fine? Yes, remarkably enough—all your guts are back where they're supposed to be, and you are seemingly none the worse for it. Or did you mean to say _I'm_ fine? Because of course I am, I wasn't the one who was nearly ripped in half by a leshen; so yes, once I washed all of your blood off of me—"

"Fine," Geralt clarifies, "let's fuck."

Jaskier stares at him.

"Unbelievable," he says at last. "You are absolutely unbelievable."

Geralt grits his teeth. "Do you want to, or don't you?"

"I'm going to punch _you_ in the head, one of these days," Jaskier says absently; his eyes are—are roving Geralt's face, quick, searching. And he eases his hand from Geralt's hair to his jaw, and leans in, and then they're kissing.

He's good at it. Of course he is, Geralt reminds himself, but even knowing it, knowing why, there's a certain satisfaction in it: everyone else Jaskier has ever kissed, all the experience Jaskier's painstakingly acquired to hone his skill in this regard, and right now he's bringing it all to bear on Geralt, offering it all up to Geralt.

For however long it will last.

But Geralt understood that all along. Jaskier hasn't tricked him, hasn't lied to him, hasn't made him any promises. He's walking into this with his eyes open, and he knows already he'll wring what he can from it, with all the grim determination he can muster. Etch it into himself, indelible, so he'll have something left to him even after Jaskier has gone—

Jaskier breaks away. He's smiling; it doesn't have the edge of smug satisfaction Geralt had been expecting. It isn't a smile that gloats, that savors its victory.

"You'll see," Jaskier says quietly, earnestly. "You'll see—I know I can make it good for you, if you let me. I'll make it worth your while."

As if he means to convince Geralt; as if he thinks it's necessary to, even after Geralt has already surrendered. As if he thinks—

"You'll see," Jaskier repeats, softer still, and then clears his throat. "You won't even remember your own name," he adds, abruptly light. "I'll just fuck it right out of you."

"Will you now," Geralt murmurs.

"A feat worthy of story and song," Jaskier insists.

Geralt makes a dubious sound. Jaskier grins at him, and leans in over him; Geralt reaches for him, allowed at last.

And then Jaskier sets a hand over the raw new scars at Geralt's waist, and the smile is gone. He looks at Geralt silently—and turns into Geralt's hand against his face, without looking away, and presses his mouth, soft, tender, half-open, to the heel of it.

Geralt's breath catches, unbidden.

It isn't going to work. It can't. But—

But perhaps it won't do any harm to let Jaskier try to convince him otherwise.


End file.
